What's in the Box?
by BettyBackInTheDay
Summary: Black Widow and Hawkeye are called back to the SHIELD helicarrier to retrieve items left to them from Agent Coulson. Black Widow POV. Very first published fan fic.


I admit that it was tough being around Loki again. I could feel the hate swirling around us. But nothing like what was coming off of Clint. Wow. He is tense. Too tense. He's strung tighter than his bow string right now. He's going to lose it right here in front of everyone. I can't let that happen.

I turn to face Clint and whisper, "I wonder if our ant knows the size of the Asgaardian boot that's coming for him?" And there it is - that rare devilish grin that melts my heart. Luckily it is so rare or I might not be able to keep my distance and maintain my dedication to our professional partnership.

As quickly as he flashed into our lives Loki flashes out. His physical presence is gone and that's a relief. But the emotional effects will stick around for quite a while. Maybe I should've let Clint go off after all. I shake my head at the thought. Too much blood has been spilled in his name already. His blood won't bring anyone back. It won't bring Coulson back. I put on my best neutral but pleasant face, turn around and hand over Bruce's should bag. Other than the airport, I don't know where he's going. Tony's made some over-the-top plans for him, I'm sure. Just like I'm sure that Bruce will zig when he's expected to zag and think he's off of SHIELD's radar. And maybe he will be, but I know Tony will be able to find him if he's needed. And I'm equally sure Bruce is ok with that.

As we climb into the SHIELD-issue vehicle, Cap casually nods and he looks at ease as he rides away on his motorcycle. The wind blows his hair and there's a hint of a smile. Maybe it turns into a full-blown grin after he's out of sight. I know I wouldn't let anyone see me smile this soon after a mission. Not that we haven't earned the right to feel relieved or relaxed, but it's not something you're ready to share yet. Or ever, in my case.

As Clint turns the key, both of our phones buzz. Hill. How does she know things just wrapped up? Surely she isn't going to bump up the deadline for report submission. Neither of us has ever been late with our post-mission reports. Although, there may be some concern regarding after effects of Clint's Tesseract experience. I know his ultra-stylish sunglasses were less out of vanity and more of a protective measure against any possibility of Loki's attempt to repossess his mind. SHIELD may have been thinking the same thing.

"Well, looks like comm is back up," I grumble.

He replied, "Don't we get a lunch break?"

I chuckle then begin to read the text out loud. "Agents, at your earliest convenience report to HQ. There are items within Agent Coulson's effects that are designated to go to you upon his demise. They are marked as such and are available to you in his office. As discussed, you are granted a paid leave of absence for a time frame of your discretion. Keep in mind that your report is expected in my in box within 48 hours from the time of this message. You are encouraged to stay away for a period of time to physically recoup and, honestly, give your brain and body a break. However, if you wish to return sooner rather than later to retrieve the items, this is understood and you will receive no grief from SHIELD (specifically Director Fury because I will keep him in the dark). Let me know if you need a lift to the helicarrier."

I wondered what Coulson had that he designated to give to us. I have no idea.

We drive in silence for quite a while. We never discussed where we were going after the send off. Now we just sit in silence with our own thoughts as Clint maneuvers out of the city. I think about past missions and how Clint was always there, always professional, always ready to lend an ear or a shoulder. I rarely used the ear, and never used his shoulder. If I were a different person I would have jumped at his comforting presence. But the Black Widow doesn't need comforting. Clint understands that, too.

And then it hit me. I gripped the door handle in a death grip. I thought it was subtle, but it must've startled Clint because he slightly swerved off the road. He quickly and smoothly recovered. So much so, in fact, that I momentarily questioned that it happened. Maybe it's just my overreaction to the sudden memory that entered my mind. The letter.

Could it really be? Did he still have it and plan to honor my wishes? It was a momentary lapse of reason, an "if-I-get –out-of-this-alive-I'll-spill-my-innermost-thoughts" manifesto. Oh, God.

I try to recall the events that led up to my decision to write the damned missive. Budapest. Bullets. Arrows. Out numbered three-to-one, bloody, battered, broken bones, wounded spirits - but a stunningly successful mission. We fought for one another against impossible odds, not wanting to let the other fall. We shielded each other, supported each other, saved each other. As we were rushed to SHIELD's secret medical facility, we insisted on being in the same ambulance, in the same exam room, always in each other's sight. That's where we developed our bond, our immeasurable trust. Nobody was touching him without my supervision. It was a deeply seeded mole that put us in that situation and we could only count on each other to get completely out of it. Out of any situation. After days of recovering in the same room and seeing only each other, reliving the events, fearing the future, I made the most amazing, terrifying, gratifying, terrifying, life altering, and terrifying discovery. I trusted Clint more than I trusted myself. I would protect him at any cost. His life was worth ten of mine. I loved him.

Of course I couldn't admit this to anyone, least of all him. And yet, I felt like I owed it to him to let him know what an extraordinary man I knew he was. Everyone wants to be loved, right? So instead of coming out, looking him in the eye and making my confession, I did what any good assassin would do: tell him what he meant to me in my will. Not a will exactly, but a document only to be opened upon my death.

I wrote it in one sitting. Didn't change a word. In a very uncharacteristic gesture, I even put the paper to my lips before folding it and putting it into the envelope. I wrote his first name neatly on the outside then put it into a nondescript larger white envelope with "Agent Barton" written on it. Then it went into a standard 9x12 envelope.

When I gave it Coulson, he didn't show any emotion. Typical. He listened to my verbal instructions: the envelope was to be left on Coulson's desk. Agent Barton was to be let into the office alone and given as much time as he wanted. I watched as he placed the envelope in a drawer in the safe and locked the safe. That's where the envelope would stay until such time that my instructions were to be followed. I never thought Coulson would go first. I don't think he did either.

I can still see him looking at me with a quizzical tilt to his head. I turned to leave and as I grabbed the door handle he said, "Have you considered how those written words will affect Agent Barton? They give you a clear conscious in the grave but will it cause him to live out his days in comfort for what was or regret at what could have been?" I didn't reply, didn't look back, just turned the cold heavy knob and walked out. He never brought it up again. Obviously, neither did I.

Now realizing that the letter could see the light of day, I was forced to consider Coulson's question. The words came flooding back into my consciousness.

The letter:

Agent Barton,

I hope this letter finds you healthy and unhurt. I have not been so lucky. And it all comes down to luck, doesn't it? All the hours of training, practicing, sparring, and conditioning won't make a difference if it's just your time to go, right? My luck ran out. But not before I was the luckiest girl in the world. My life wasn't always lucky but that changed when you spared my life. Not only was I lucky enough to live, but I was incredibly lucky to live a life with you. Not in the traditional sense, of course. We were a force in the field, as well as in those rare moments of off time. Whether you knew it not, you were my rock, my sanity, my conscience, my heart and my soul. You allowed me to believe that I was worthy - though just barely- of your time and attention. What I never allowed myself to believe was that I could handle your response to my telling you my most personal confession. I couldn't convince myself that you felt the same. And I'd rather be with you in some way than be without you in any way. Please forgive my selfishness. Know that my spirit lives on in your determination, your skill, your humanity, and your heart. I love you, Clint Barton.

Always,

Nat

I have got to get that letter back.

I was snapped back the present by his voice resonating through the car. "You know, Nat, if it were anyone else I'd say save it for later, but this is Coulson. I know there's no way I can ever fix what happened, but I feel like I have an opportunity to maybe ease the pain a little. Would you be ok if we head back to HQ to pick up what he left for us?"

"I think that's exactly what we should do. I can even run in by myself and pick everything up if you'd like." Could it be that easy?

"No. I want to go into his office, too. I'm going to have to face these agents and SHIELD head-on if I've got any chance of coming to terms with what happened. What I caused." Nope, it couldn't be easy at all.

I turned to my left to look at his strong jaw silhouetted against the window. "Hey. I'm already tired of saying this, but you can't continue to beat yourself up. It wasn't you. It was Loki. You had no control over your actions. Your focus was on the task he put in front of you. You did what you always do. You followed orders. And as always you did an exemplary job. Start dealing with it." I squeezed his forearm to drive home my point. "I'm here for whatever you need. You are not facing this alone."

I expected an instant and angry reply. What I got was a half-mile of silence. Then with a sudden turn of the wheel, we did a 180-degree turn up over the median and just like that we were headed back to base. I responded to Assistant Director Hill with a text that we were on our way back and required transport to HQ.

We rode in silence. I got the feeling there was something he wanted to say. It was a whisper waiting to be released. I watched him from the corner of my well-trained eye and waited for the dam to rupture. There was so much pushing against his steely resolve I don't know how he didn't burst. What was there? What message was he holding back? If only he'd let it free he could begin the healing process. I'm no shrink, but I've been sat down in front of enough of them to know that resistance is futile. Especially, if SHIELD is footing the bill. They keep pushing your buttons until, finally, you can't hold on any more. Words, phrases, sentences you didn't even know you could put into your own voice come spewing forth. Before it starts you think you'll never talk. Once it begins you wonder if you'll ever be able to shut up.

I want him to talk. If only just to hear his voice because I know much of what he'll say I won't want to hear. It will be painful. Emotional. My heart will break for him. Even a relative stranger could be moved to tears by this unfortunate chain of events. But I'm not a stranger. I'm me. I don't cry but that doesn't mean I don't feel. And what I feel for him guarantees my response to his confession will rip me apart inside.

As we approach the helicarrier pick up location, the tension is thick in the car. That's odd because we are so attuned to each other, our surroundings, our objectives, everything, that the feeling is foreign to both of us. He glances at me and offers a small smile. I tilt my head slightly toward my right shoulder. It's kind of my signature move with him – so subtle that most people don't even notice it. But when he gets it he knows things are a go.

As we board the quinjet, we are met on the ramp by Hill herself. "Agents, thank you for your prompt response to my request. Director Fury has quite the itinerary planned out for the massive clean up and overhaul. I'm glad to get this wrapped up before all that gets underway in earnest." As she turns quickly to glance over her shoulder at us, I catch what can only be categorized as moist eyes. Had she been crying? She turns her back to us and continues walking. In a much lower and slower tone she adds, "It's good to see you two together. Best damn partnership in all of SHIELD."

Once on the helicarrier, we make our way through the long gray hallways, stepping over debris and crouching to avoid hanging wires and beams. I make sure to look every agent we pass directly in the eye. I notice that Clint does the same. I walk so close to him that I can feel his muscles tense with every passing glance, the guilt rolling off him in waves. But I'm the only one. Hill keeps up a steady pace and has us at Coulson's door in record time.

"Agents, I'll open the door and leave you alone. The boxes are on his desk and clearly marked. Take all the time you need. Just know that when you leave the door will close and lock automatically. You won't be able to get back in. You'll be on your own when exiting the base. I wasn't supposed to escort you but I wanted to see you both for myself and say, well, say thank you. While you're here I'll be running interference to keep Fury and everyone else otherwise occupied and away from you. Oh, and don't forget I'll need your reports in... 47.5 hours. Good day, agents."

She punched in the code and a smooth click indicated the door was open. Without a word she strode away. I took a very deep breath and turned that heavy doorknob. We were about to enter a space where we spent many hours making plans, determining marks, discussing strategy, even had a few lighthearted moments. I felt a sense of dread as I stepped in. This time would be different. Coulson wasn't here. He wouldn't ever be here again.

Just as we were told, there were two small neatly arranged boxes on either end of the desk. Each box had a yellow note with a last name on it. The handwriting was actually Coulson's. Well, his scribble, anyway. For all his obsessive neatness and organization, the man had terrible penmanship. That made my lips curve in a very small smile. What other obscenely minor character traits of his will move me to smile? Or to the verge of tears?

As we approached the desk, I reached out for my box. Would it be in there? Did he keep it in the same envelopes as I instructed? Was there anything else in the box? My hands hung in the air. What was I so afraid to find? That the letter was there, or that it wasn't?

"Nat, you ok?" he asked from my right.

I shook off my trepidation and grabbed the box. "Of course. I'm fine."

"Of course you are," he muttered. I jerked my head to the right to offer a stern glare, but he wasn't even looking. I was momentarily mesmerized by his actions towards his box. He kept his hands at his side and peered inside. His eyes showed no emotion. I couldn't tell if he was surprised by the contents or not. My mind caught up with me and chastised me for staring. Although we were here together, this was actually a rather private occasion and I should leave him to his reactions. I had enough to deal with on my own. Time to face my box.

I grabbed either side of the white container and forced my head over the top. There was a folded piece of plain stationery wrapped around a photograph. And a plain 9x12 envelope. Did I just sigh out loud? I'm not going to look up to find out if that elicited any reaction from my partner. Instead I reached in and picked up the photo. I opened the folded note. In Coulson's scrawl it said: "Tash, you know SHIELD's protocol is to destroy any photos that are left over from completed missions that aren't considered evidence. I couldn't bring myself to shred this one. Your personal effects are necessarily few, so do with this what you will. I may be way out of line, but I wanted you to make the call on this one."

I take a look at the photo. How in the world did he manage to keep this? It's an old snapshot of Clint and I taken by a SHIELD surveillance camera during a mission in London. We were at Emirates Stadium for an Arsenals soccer game tailing a mark. It was a no-brainier assignment and the game was exciting. We were cheering for the home team when the picture was snapped. Our eyes were wide, we were smiling, and Clint's arm was around my shoulder in a congratulatory squeeze. We look so relaxed, so happy. So normal.

As I wrap the photo back in the notepaper I know I sighed out loud. I had no idea where I'd put the photo but I was committed to keeping it. I tell myself it's because it's from Coulson. And that's true. But I know that's not the only reason.

I pick up the lid that was sitting behind the box and give it a good tap to secure it. As look up I can see a wide grin on Clint's face as he shakes his head. I watch as he places the lid on his box. He turns to me and puts a strong hand on my left shoulder.

"I am so ready to get off this flying boat and not think about world domination or cosmic cubes or avenging an untimely death or anything else." He softly trailed his hand down my arm to my hand and gave a firm squeeze. "Are you ready to go?"

I dipped my head slightly and raised it back up. I looked into his deep, green eyes and said, "I am so ready to get the hell out of here." He smiled back, let go of my hand and picked up his box.

"Want me to grab yours?"

"NO!" I yelled. I quickly gain my composure and said more lightly, "That's ok, I got it." It's not like he could read the letter or see the picture by just touching the box, but I didn't want him anywhere near it.

As he reached for the door handle, he said "Ya know, we planned some great missions in here. I hope Coulson knew that I had no control, that I never would've allowed those events to happen if I had even the slightest ability to stop it. I hope he knew that."

"Hey, I'm telling you he knew. He was sick over what happened to you. The sound of his voice when he told me you'd been compromised chilled me to the bone. Believe me, he knew."

A quick nod of his head, a slow turn for each of us to take one last look at the office and then he opened the door. He tucked his box under his right arm and placed his left hand at the small of my back and gently guided me out of the office.

Our pace was even quicker on the way out than it had been on the way in. We passed far fewer people on the way out, too. I wondered if that was Hill's doing. In the end I didn't care. I wanted to be back on the ground. Back in the vehicle in the passenger seat with Clint driving us to, well, I didn't care where we went. We could drive all night for all I cared. I needed some space to breathe.

The quinjet pilot was a young man who seemed very nervous to be in the seat. He didn't look at either of us as we boarded. He expertly put the bird down mere feet from our SHIELD-issue vehicle. He fidgeted as he waited for us to pick up our boxes and exit the jet. Of the three of us, I think he wanted us out of there even more than we wanted out of there. And that was saying something.

With the boxes packed in the trunk, we begin to weave our way back out of the city. This time he seems to have a plan. "Do you have a destination in mind?" I ask.

"How does Mystic, Connecticut sound?"

"Never heard of it."

"There's a safe house there. Check and see if it's still available."

I pull up the information on the in-dash computer and confirm that the location is available. I settle in for the ride knowing that any offer to drive would be met with an eye roll.

As we travel up I95 my mind is surprisingly empty. I don't have the energy or focus to think about much of anything. I steal countless glances over at Clint. His expression never changes. He's focused on the road but I can tell there's something going on in his mind. I'm tempted to ask what he's thinking about, but will leave him with his thoughts. Once we get settled in and I get my box contents secured, I'll begin my interrogation.

I feel a gentle nudge against my left shoulder. "Nat? Do you want to sleep in the car or get comfortable in the house?" I fell asleep. That never happens.

"I'm so sorry. I can't believe I did that."

"Don't be sorry. Obviously, you needed the rest. Besides you were only out about an hour or so."

"Oh, please. You need rest more than I do. I should've been awake to drive or keep you awake while you drove. Although, as usual, you didn't ask for my help and got us where we needed to be." I let an exasperated smirk spread across my face to let him know I was giving him a hard time but in good humor.

He just scowled, doubled tapped the armrest and said, "I'll get the bags. Do you want to keep your box in the car?"

Did I? What was I going to do with it in the house? "No, I'll bring it in with me."

We gathered everything up and walked into the house from the spacious and well-armored garage. Once in the small, unassuming seaside Cape Cod residence, the mid afternoon sunlight shone brightly in the modern kitchen. As with all SHIELD safe houses, the outward appearance was normal and fit in with the surrounding neighborhood, usually in touristy locations, if in highly-populated areas. The cabinets and refrigerator were always filled with basic but fresh options. Before the send off in Central Park, we stopped for our own special additions: vodka for me and beer for Clint. As soon as he put the bags down, I opened mine and pulled out the bottle of Grey Goose. It went directly to the freezer.

As Clint made a second trip to the car to get his case of beer, I picked up my bug-out bag and my box and began to scope out the house. The dining room was small, more of an extended living room, really. The large bay window looked over the front porch, which provided a gorgeous view of Long Island Sound. The wind coming off the water provided a constant background hum. I found it very comforting.

I continued down the hallway, past a large contemporary-style bathroom. There were two bedrooms, one on either side of the hall. They looked identical, so I claimed the one on the front of the house. That way any street noise wouldn't disturb Clint.

I put the box on the bed and sat down beside it. I could hear Clint transferring the beer bottles from the case into the fridge. I closed the door slightly to give myself a little bit of privacy. I didn't want to discourage conversation, but I also didn't want to have to explain why I was ripping up the contents of my box.

I took off the lid and unwrapped the photo again. I couldn't quit looking at it. To the untrained eye it would like two people who were totally comfortable with each other. Who were enjoying each other's company completely. And that's exactly what we were. It would be assumed that we were a couple deeply in love. And that's where the story fell apart. The river of guilt that flows between us pretty much guarantees that the fairy tale ending is out of reach. How could our haunted pasts possibly allow for any kind of future together? How do you overlook a lifetime of deception, lies, mind games, and cold blooded murder?

I wrapped the photo back up in Coulson's note and stuck it in a side pocket of my bag. I reached in and pulled out the 9x12 envelope. I lifted up the little clamps that sealed it closed and pulled up the flap. Inside was a smaller white envelope. I pulled it out. I turned it over expecting to see my own handwriting on the outside. It was blank.

"That's not right," I whispered. I noticed my hands started to shake and my breathing started to be an effort. Get a grip. You're a trained assassin. You don't react this way when you're in life or death situations. Why lose your cool over a letter?

Maybe my memory is wrong. Maybe Coulson had to change envelopes for some reason.

I reach in and pull out the final envelope. A sharp intake of breath and a racing heart are my reaction to what I see written on the outside of this envelope. In neat blue ink is written "NAT". I recognize the printing immediately. It's Clint's.

I start to whisper out loud, "No, no, no. Something got screwed up. This isn't right. Why is MY name on this envelope? This isn't the letter I wrote." I can feel panic spreading throughout my body. What do I do?

I take a deep breath and clear my head. Think, Nat, think. Your next step requires that you have all the information possible so you make an educated decision. Open the envelope and see what's inside.

As I run my finger under the flap to open it, I melodramatically wonder if things will ever be the same after I read this. What could he possibly have to say to me in a letter? And where in the hell is MY original letter? My already blown mind can't deal with the most obvious answer. I unfold the plain white paper and begin to read:

Nat,

As you well know I'm a man of few words. That goes for writing as well as talking. But if you're reading this, it means we'll never speak again and I couldn't let these words die with my voice. From the moment I first met you, you consumed me. It was supposed to be the other way around, but it was you who pierced MY heart. Our time together was too short. It could've been 50years and it would still be too short. I never knew love before you. You are as beautiful as you are strong, as tender as you are stubborn, as loving as you are loyal. You are a priceless treasure and I hope you are able to see the relative peace you brought to my life. I was never much, but I would've been nothing without you. I love you, Nat.

Always,

Clint

I was stunned. I sat there staring at the words. Was it 10 seconds or 10 minutes? I felt every breath, every muscle tense and relax, every hair on my head tingle. I'd never felt so alive and yet completely paralyzed. He loved me. I didn't deserve that. I couldn't handle that. Did I? Could I?

I read the note again, slowly, memorizing every word, every pen stroke, every blemish on the paper. And his name began to blur on the page. It dissolved into a mass of swirling colors. My God, I was crying. I pulled the note to me and let the tears fall from my eyes. I hadn't shed tears in decades. It was a foreign experience. And I couldn't stop it. As the wind continued to blow outside, I just let the tears drop onto my lap.

I had no category for these tears. Joy of discovering love? Fear of the future? Sorrow for not being able to tell him I knew? Yes, and so much more. So much to deal with. I need to take a deep breath, put everything away and sneak into the bathroom to clean up. One look at my red nose and puffy eyes and his questions will never end. Hopefully he's still in the kitchen or has moved into his bedroom.

As I sit up straight and reach for the box I suddenly realize I know exactly where he is. I look up and meet his intense gaze in the doorway. From the look on his face, he's been there for a while. He must've seen everything. I furrow my brows. Are those tearstains on his cheeks? I rip my eyes away from his and they trail down to his hand. Oh, my God. In his hand. It's my letter to him. I bring my eyes back to his and force the words from my mouth. "We need to talk."

After a very long pause he said softly, "Still trying to find my voice."

Something about the way he said that just ripped through my chest. The past few days came rushing at me: from Russia to India to NYC, the egos, the Hulk, the aliens, the demigods, and mind control. And even farther back, the dangerous missions, the deceptions, SHIELD, Budapest, red room. My life in an instant. Here was my salvation, my chance at fulfillment, my hope for happiness. I wasn't going to let him slip away from me, not without the fight of my life if it came to that.

I rose steadily from the bed and laid the letter inside the box. I walked over to him and looked up into his questioning eyes. He cautiously cocked his head slightly to the right, not knowing my motive. How could he know my motive when I wasn't sure of what I was doing myself? Seemingly without any thought at all, I lifted my right arm and wrapped my hand around the back of his head. I pulled gently down. "For once, let me help you."

It took only a split second of pleading with my half opened eyes burning into his. He bent the rest of the way down and met my lips. So tender. Not hesitant, but not forceful. Not what one would image a kiss nearly 15 years in the making between the Black Widow and the Hawk would be. It was possible. It was perfect. It was us.


End file.
